


forever and a day

by DrSchaf



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Codependency, Injury, M/M, Pining, Sibling Incest, Twincest, but disregards the second movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 05:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15767739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: Connor, Murphy finds, thinks he knows the future





	forever and a day

At the age of five, Connor declares that he will never get married to anyone because marriage is silly and he isn't a silly person. Murphy begs to differ and earns himself a bruise on his shin that lasts for a week.

At the age of eight, Connor says that with Da being away and Ma being cool anyway, marriage makes as much sense as a cow on a plane or a cow _being_ a plane. Murphy flicks his nose and gets his first shiner, after.

At the age of eleven, Connor - dressed up in a tux and polished shoes - refuses to attend the marriage of cousin Eddie and his girl. Ma's blue vase gets destroyed in the racket he creates by refusing to get into the car, and Murphy has to join in when it gets too bad and then they're _both_ sent to their room where Connor promptly opens the window, sticks his head out, and hollers his condolences down to Eddie. And sorry he is; he wears a sullen face for two days straight and each time someone mentions the wedding in the weeks to come, and it's only after endless needling that Murphy finally gets privy to the secret Connor carries around with him: They're 'not going to make it' because no marriage ever lasts anyway.

At the age of nineteen, overwhelmed by a new country and with the first lass Connor chased him out of the apartment for, Murphy asks if he plans to propose to her. It's the first time, and it's very much on purpose even though he pretends Connor has forgotten by now. There's no fight and Connor doesn't get angry. He doesn't understand, Murphy thinks, looking at Connor's confused face, about the concept of marriage at all. He simply says, “Why would I?”, and that's the end of it.

*

He's restless, throat dry and knuckles pressing against his sternum to get rid of the deep itch there.

It's stupid, of course. To reach his heart, he would have to crack open his ribs and possibly die, and he's not there yet. Not by a long shot, not when Connor hasn't brought home a lass in a month, several, a year, more months on top of it. An endless parade of smiles and jokes and roughhousing, late nights at McGinty's and even later nights at home, chatting about everything and nothing at all.

No expectations, no drifting apart.

No change, no stepping out of their predetermined lines. There's a balance he wasn't aware of before, and its maintenance is the highest power, the thing they both thrive toward until he's lonely enough to keep thinking about it, that thing Connor considered to be his truth ever since he learned to talk, and he becomes obsessed with finding an answer to a question he doesn't dare to voice aloud.

*

If he could walk up to him like usual, simply plopping down on the couch beside him, beer in one hand and smoke in the other while kicking an empty bag of crisps out of the way, he'd ask, “The one above all others, the one ye should cherish the most, why wouldn't ye marry them?”

If he were drunk, perhaps, he'd phrase it differently. Leave out the should, condense it to its core alone so it's a statement instead of a question, “The one ye love unconditionally, Connor. That one ye marry.”

He doesn't, of course.

*

They're back to back on Rocco's spare bed.

There's no heating and it's fucking dark, and Murphy stares at the wall, the light around them blueish and pale from the ugly alarm clock. The room - the _bed_ \- smells like old oil, dust. It smells moldy, and he has considered it all, and his heart is in his throat. He's as sure as he's going to get, but he wouldn't bother trying to find out if there wasn't the real chance of dying tomorrow and no marriage ever lasts anyway no marriage ever—

He wouldn't bother, but Connor said it, but Yakavetta has to be dealt with, but Connor said it and in less than twenty-four hours they will get to do just that - dealing with Yakavetta. And no marriage ever lasts anyway.

His jeans dig into his hip. Murphy turns, gnawing on his lip while Connor rushes out a sigh. In the dark, his shirt looks almost black even though it isn't. It's much lighter, almost gray. Murphy doesn't dare move despite not having a single reservation about disturbing Connor's sleep with anything at all times, and now his nerves are wracked, making his palms sweaty and cold, making his breath come so fast he's forced to inhale the rotten scent around them. And Connor's, in front of him, not rotten at all.

He wants to bury his nose there, right against the nape of his neck, and do nothing else than breathe him in. He doesn't, he swallows instead and lets his hand inch forward until it connects with Connor's shirt and then, underneath, his back. It's warm, solid, and earns him a grunt.

“What?” Connor mumbles. He rolls on his back, prompting Murphy to draw back his hand, and gives him an odd look. “Can't sleep?”

“Mh,” he says because his mind is stuck and he knows he has to give some kind of answer to avoid looking like he's gone in the head.

There were goosebumps right before he withdrew his hand. Right under his fingers, rising so quickly he would have to be dumb as fuck not to notice them. Connor isn't dumb either, quite on the contrary, and even though he saved his hand, his knuckles are still pressed against Connor's side.

“Yer lonely or what?”

Murphy shakes, a gentle wave from his head to his toes.

“Are ye, Murph?” Connor turns his head, staring at him through the dark. His voice is tight, but he sounds tired all the same, consonants fraying so it's just a murmur. “Or are ye just randy?”

It's quiet and violent, bordering on nice, and Murphy sucks in a breath, heart almost jumping out of his chest with the fucking pain of it. Of course. Of course it'd be like that, what did he _think_ —

“Got an itch that needs scratching?”

He reels back, a lump of something stuck in his throat. It's his fucking heart, surely, and his eyes are burning. “Quit it,” he hisses, scooting back as Connor rolls over to face him.

“The fuck yer touching me for, then? The fuck ye think yer _doing_ then, eh? Tell me.”

As fucking if.

Murphy scoffs and rolls away to hide anything that may show on his face. He's cold now, inside and out, and the sheer shock of finding out about the existence of something he can't share with Connor rattles his mind. As far as first times go, this is more awful than he thought possible.

“Go take it into the bathroom, aye? If it's that bloody urgent. The bed's too small for me to ignore ye having a go at it.”

“It's not about that!” Murphy cries and then he reigns himself back in again, choking on air in the process of not fucking dying of mortification. And hatred, possibly. And Connor glaring at him as if he's done a great wrong, as if his fucking stupid brother has any idea what he was trying to do in the first place. He doesn't know shit, never has, and he bloody well hates him.

“What's that mean?” Connor demands, raising on his elbow to stare down at him while Murphy tries to avoid his eyes until he realizes Connor's question isn't about his hatred, it's about his statement of not needing a good wank. He flips him off. “Murphy. What is it ye came up with in that thick head of yers? Some kind of twisted idea, no? Something I should beat out of ye, maybe?”

Adrenalin rushes through him so strongly, he barely feels his toes. He's a heartbeat only, nothing else, and even that will give out soon. “Yer fucking awful,” Murphy whispers, and then he clenches his teeth before a sob breaks through.

“I'm right, no? Spit it out.”

“Yer bloody nothing, least of it right. Just keep talking, aye. Ye carry on like that, it'll go away any moment.” He forces himself to lay still instead of giving in to the urge to flee to spare him even more humiliation. After a minute or two, maybe hours, he sits up and swings his legs over the edge.

“Murph?” His voice sounds weird, on the verge of confused, and Murphy doesn't want to know. “Did I hurt ye or what?”

If he were like this all the time, they never would've gotten into this situation. Nasty and vile, without any empathy at all. Fucking arsehole.

“What _is_ it?”

“Nothin', Jesus Christ.”

“Speak plainly!”

Murphy snorts and moves to stand. “I thought I did,” he says though he didn't, but his head hurts and there's nothing else to do besides going through the motions of an average fight. He leaves the bed on shaky legs, angling himself away as Connor rolls up from the bed in a smooth motion and stops behind him.

“Hail Mary full of Grace,” he prompts, spitting the words against his neck. “Do I have to pray for ye now?”

Murphy crosses himself as Connor steps closer. He feels it, the air shifts and his heart calls out too, and he can't fucking believe he's got it all wrong. Connor _said_ he wouldn't marry, he said it so often it echoed through their bloody lives without Connor ever needing to be fucking prompted. The fuck did he say it for, he's certainly not a monk, faith or not.

How can't he—feel his heart reaching out?

Connor tackles him from behind.

His arm skids over the uneven wallpaper, burning, and Murphy loses his footing. They go down, him first, then Connor's heavy weight on his back. His brother pants, muscles coiled tight as if he's the one ready to defend himself. The thought is enough to grind Murphy's thoughts to a halt, forcing him to change course and slump against the stained carpet in an attempt to go boneless. As a reward, Connor digs his fingers into his shoulder blades and fucking shakes him.

“What's the _matter_ with ye?” He's strung high, stressed like he hasn't heard him in a while, and maybe like he dares him to explain it after all—but that could be in his mind only. “Answer me.”

“I thought maybe-”

“Ye thought fucking wrong,” Connor hisses.

Murphy stops blinking.

“Did ye hear me?” Connor stresses. “There's nothing, no? It's just a weird day. Yer pent-up, it's nothing.”

It's a plea. Murphy breathes through his mouth. He nods against the carpet with something like an insane laugh clawing at him as Connor rushes out a breath. It stirs his hair and drowns out every sound that isn't his own heartbeat, and none of this makes sense.

“I see,” Connor says. “That urgent, then?”

There's a sound that vaguely reminds him of a chuckle but twisted almost out of recognition, and it isn't even his. It's Connor's, and both hope and rejection creep up into his throat until he sick with it, then Connor climbs off, the heel of his palm braced against Murphy's spine pressing the air out of him.

“Con,” he says, but he stays where he is as Connor looks down at him, eyes desperate and face pale from what he can see in the dim light. Floored, Murphy takes up blinking again.

Connor jerks his head toward the door, a fast and aborted movement. “If ye need it that fucking much, get Rocco to do it, brother.”

They watch each other. The word hangs between them, he thinks, empathized like it never is—but maybe that's just him as well. Maybe Connor said it like this since the dawn of time and he simply never noticed. Murphy opens his mouth, face on fire and nose filled with old, unwashed carpet.

“Don't.”

“Ye don't know what I was going to say.”

Connor sits on the edge of the mattress, bouncing gently. “I don't want to,” he says. “Now leave me be with it. Go wank in the bathroom, buy a brasser, get Rocco to suck yer cock - I don't give a fuck as long as ye don't mention it again.”

Murphy sits up, limbs numb and head empty while Connor gets back into bed.

“Just do it, fucking decide on it and don't tell me about it. I don't want to know. I don't _care_.” Connor doesn't breathe; it's clear, it's loud, and it lasts for a moment, another, then another until it comes rushing out in a stutter. “Fucking- Murphy, just go.”

That's not what it was about, Murphy wants to say again. He doesn't, he wouldn't know where to start. As he stands, Connor stays turned away from him, shoulders drawn up tight. He knew right from the start, Murphy thinks, closing the door behind him. Connor knew at once. It's on his mind also, that thing. It doesn't matter how many layers of crudeness he tries to bury it under, how many harsh words and painful shoves. He hasn't said one unnatural word and he hasn't touched Connor more inappropriately than on an average fucking day, and Connor knew, and despite his heart hammering against his ribs until it's painful, a small wave of relief bubbles up in his chest nonetheless.

At least the secret's out.

After a row of smokes, he goes back inside and pulls off his shirt and deliberately leaves space between their backs when he settles in. Behind him, Connor radiates tension until he falls asleep.

*

When he wakes, the bed is empty.

Murphy stares at the ceiling and lets his heart thud until his head clears and he feels strong enough to face him. His brother. The one he can't even properly curse in his mind without a wave of guilt washing through him. On the other hand, he can't bring himself to think nice things about him either, and that's no one's fault but Connor's himself.

In the kitchen, the radio blares a tinny song he doesn't know. Rocco turns and gives him a wave.

“Morning,” Murphy says, trying for friendly. He can't bring himself to look at Connor yet, but he's saved by Rocco continuing their conversation by the coffee machine. Murphy sits down at the table, blinking at a plate filled with sandwiches.

“Gotta go,” Rocco says, jingling his keys as he shoves toast into his mouth. “See ya later,” he adds, muffled and disgusting. Around his toast. The toast that isn't a sandwich.

His neck hurts, and the tips of his fingers, strangely enough.

The door closes. Connor sits down opposite of him, lights a smoke, and holds it out for him to take. Then he gets up again, fills a cup of coffee, and places it in front of him, pointedly nodding at the plate.

There are no words that want to come to him, no gratitude or belated good morning. His head is empty, simple as that, and it doesn't get better when Connor lights another smoke and leans back in his chair.

“Eat up now,” he says.

Murphy smokes, inhaling for long enough the smoke burns in his lungs, tongue numb from the too-hot coffee and not enough sleep. He's exhausted, and Connor, for sure, didn't _not_ want what he offered. Or maybe he feels guilty for refusing him.

Or this is pity.

Stubbing out the smoke, Murphy eats his sandwich and keeps Connor in his peripheral view, just in case. It might be too early in the morning, with the caffeine not having had enough time to properly work, but he fucking knows how Connor looks when he's calm, and this isn't one of those instances.

“I thought about it,” Connor says, blowing out smoke. “If ye want me to pretend, I can do that. Ye only gotta tell me, and I will do it.” It's his serious face, the one he uses for the most dire situations. His fingers are cradled around an ugly yellow mug, and the shadows under his eyes are so prominent, Murphy has to force himself to look away—and to decide if he should start a fight to burn through the horrible mess in his head. Or his heart, whatever.

He won't take this on himself. Connor will have to fucking spell it out on his own.

“Pretend what?” Murphy asks at length, watching as Connor struggles for an answer. It goes on for long enough Murphy picks up another sandwich and almost finishes it before Connor even looks at him again. Whatever will come out of his mouth next, it will be bullshit. It's obvious, he can fucking smell it from afar, and from the grimace Connor is pulling, it's obvious as well.

Which doesn't mean Connor keeps his gob shut about it.

“I mean it. This is a serious offer,” he says as if anything following that declaration would be anything but. “Would ye like me to pretend yer someone else? If ye agree, I won't mention it again. Ye won't ever notice, I promise.”

“I won't ever notice that ye pretend I'm someone else?” The horrendous disaster from last night is still too fresh in his mind, and he sure as fuck won't offer Connor any relief, but this—it's bloody hilarious. It's absurd beyond belief, and the more he thinks about it, the more he feels the urge to snort. Then he does, around his coffee.

“Dunno what's funny about that, but be my guest,” Connor mumbles. “So? What do ye think?”

“I think,” Murphy says, standing, “that ye should heed yer own fucking advice and never mention this again. Ever, Connor, I mean it. Ye do, and I'll beat ye bloody.”

The smoke in Connor's hand shakes. The movement stops after a short moment, but it was there, raising his fucking spirits.

“If that's what ye want,” Connor says with a frown. He looks pinched or confused, he looks like something Murphy has no interest in interpreting. Maybe the bastard thought he'd actually agree, but even the thought is absurd.

Actually, he won't even let himself think about the words. He'll never repeat them, even in his own head. That way lies madness so clearly, he might as well shoot himself in the head and be done with it.

*

A normal day, a normal job. Nothing fancy. They know what to do, Noah told them what to do.

Something is wrong. Something—

*

Hell, Murphy thinks, isn't what they tried to make him believe it was. There's no darkness, no demons, torture or fire. The Devil is nowhere to be seen, and he's not in actual pain either. Not yet. It'll come, it always comes at the end of the never-ending loop which replays the moment he earned his place in Hell in exclusive detail.

The disbelief and bitterness of it dulled after a while, but the anger didn't, it magnified, and if he could, he'd be foaming at the mouth, hammering his fists against the next available surface—preferably his face. As it is, he can't. He aims his gun instead, shouting like he always does, and watches on as the man dies and then the girl after, then Connor is in his space, shoving him until he stumbles. A gun is trained on him, familiar not only because he's seen the loop hundreds of times; his brother owns this one.

“Murph,” Connor says, again.

The man pissed himself and the room reeks of it, adding to the blood, and Murphy yells. It's exhausting, yelling even though he doesn't want to. There is no choice, he can't change a thing; he's seen and tried at all.

He raises his gun and shoots himself in the head. 

*

They enter the house, and Murphy aims at the man. There's yelling, him and everyone else. The man pisses his pants and then he dies. The girl dies, Connor yells. Murphy shoots himself.

*

They enter the house. He yells.

*

He's pretty sure shooting himself wasn't the plan, yet here he is, watching Connor's eyes widen in horror. They shine a bit, more than they usually do. Did. One thing of beauty, sole and lonely in this nightmare. He could've done without the horror in them, but he takes what he can get. Concerning Connor, he'd take any and everything he's given—if he's honest. And why shouldn't he be?

This is Hell already, he can't be punished twice.

Maybe this is the reason after all, maybe Connor got so defensive because he knew about death and Hell and being stuck, and all he wanted to do was save them from it.

*

He isn't good on his own, he never was and he never had any reason to; Connor being away from him for more than a few blocks or hours at a time simply never occurred. The question of going their own ways didn't come up, neither the need for it. He certainly never felt it, and in hindsight - and since he's got nothing but time now, an eternity of watching himself shoot two people, making Connor attack him and then dying - in hindsight, he thinks Connor didn't want it either. To be away from him for longer, to do whatever he wanted to do on his own.

He thinks he has about another hundred rounds, maybe less, before he'll lose it. Not that anything follows this realization. Just as a fact.

His life is three minutes now, three minutes of piss, blood, tears and yelling, and then death.

Each time he grips the knob and opens the door to enter the house, the metal feels colder. Soon it will burn him, leave blisters, forcing his skin to pull back and shrivel. Something worthy of Hell for once.

Murphy titters, internally, and shoots the girl, externally.

The door wasn't that cold the first time around, was it? It's fall and it's wet and windy, but it isn't cold. The handle shouldn't be that cold, this isn't a fucking freezer, it's just a house.

*

Connor shouts something after “Murph”, but he can't make it out. He's halfway dead by then, the bullet ripping through his brain, and despite concentrating so very hard, he can't grasp it. What he grasps is the light behind Connor's ear. The left one, right in his line of sight - the window. It's half-dark. Not bright, but not day either.

When they entered the first time - the _real_ time - it was just past 2 PM. Day. Day all the way, not even close to evening.

This isn't a memory. It's tampered with, and he's stuck. Then he's dead.

It doesn't matter. They enter the house. It's dark, evening for real. The handle is chilly, not freezing. Maybe it wasn't before either.

Twenty times after that, the moon comes up.

Time shifts. He's stuck while time goes on.

This isn't a memory at all.

*

“Murph,” Connor says. The sun is shining through the window and he isn't crying, but his eyes are big and—why isn't he crying? He's supposed to, at this point.

“Connor,” Murphy wants to say but he didn't, so he can't.

It's over anyway, and he thinks, distantly, he forgot to raise his gun.

He's dead either way, he guesses, because they're entering the house. He tries to drag his feet or to turn around to look at Connor's face, but it's for nothing. He only looks at him again after the people are dead and Connor points his own gun, horrified or maybe not, maybe with the same look he got on his face when he told him he'd pretend for him.

“If I pretend, would it be enough?” That's what he asked, maybe. If he'd lied, Murphy thinks morosely, if he'd said yes, Connor would've done that for him.

It's one of the reasons he loved him, he supposes, the nonexistent limit of things Connor would've done to make him happy, keep him safe. Still, he rather would've cut out his own heart, as dramatic as that would've been, than letting Connor pretend to love him back.

Murphy grins, and it pulls at his muscles, strange and unexpected. He shoots the girl. Something tingles at the back of his neck, but he didn't turn around, and then Connor raises his gun again, horrified again, and Murphy dies. He guesses.

*

He doesn't feel much. Sound comes back first—no, that's not right. First, it's a smell, faintly like lemon but much sharper. He wants to wrinkle his nose against the unpleasantness of it, and for a moment, nothing happens. For a second moment, he thinks he's without his _nose_ now and panic sets in, and then comes the noise, all around him all of a sudden, and distinctly not the house he was in. He's shooting no one, there is no changing light or Connor's horrified face or the bodies of the man and the woman.

Piss doesn't smell like lemons.

His feeling comes back and rushes inside his head as does the light shining in his eyes, it hurts so much, it's beyond horrible and he can't _move_. He wants to retch, and sight comes back and everything happens at once in a flurry of movement, a cascade of noise all around him—then it's over as soon as it began.

Left behind, a nurse stands near. She smiles like nurses are supposed to smile; reassuringly, just the right amount of empathy without being pulled in along for the ride. Underneath, she is scared.

There are no handcuffs around his wrists, but he can't move either way. Or - he can. His eyes move, pulling his head toward the window.

It snows.

He isn't supposed to be here. It was spring. He can't move. Connor isn't here, the nurse is scared. He can't move and it snows. _Connor_ isn't here, and they were on the run.

He shot people.

He was in Hell and now he's back.

“Do you remember your name?” asks the nurse.

Murphy rolls the idea around in his head, mulling it over for long enough she turns away with a face he's unable to read. He tries his voice. “Legs,” he croaks. Barely, but it's there.

She walks over, a plastic cup with a straw in her hand. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. You're not supposed to speak yet, the tube makes the throat raw.” She holds the straw out, laying it against his lips.

He sucks and takes a tiny sip. It's a waterfall, rekindling him. Tiring him. “Legs,” he breathes.

“Oh. No, they're fine. It's just from the disuse. The muscles grow weak, you'll need physical therapy to get back on your feet, but they're both just fine.” She steps away again, taking the water with her.

How long. Where's Connor. Where is my brother.

“The doctor will be back to talk to you, but you can rest for now. It's tiring waking after so long. You've been my first patient, you know? Right when I was done with school, you came here, too. I guess I forgot- There wasn't much to hope for. After the first few weeks - that can work. Not after years. You're special.” She clears her throat. “I guess.”

Years.

*

Smecker stands in the doorway, gawking.

For the occasion of the official visit, they heaved him up and sat him in a wheelchair.

“You,” Smecker says, taking a step and shooing the nurse away until she closes the door behind herself.

Murphy licks his lips and goes for a glare. Or a plea, he isn't sure yet. “Me,” he rasps.

“They told me, but seeing you up and as about as expected in your condition-” He shakes his head and takes another step forward, a rare display of uncertainty in his movements. “How are you feeling?”

Weak. Hurting, somewhat dull like his nerves haven't decided whether they should pass on pain once again or stay dead instead. Or—not dead. They explained it all and he didn't listen past the point of knowing his strength would come back once he's had physical therapy. In the long run, it doesn't matter. What matters is that Smecker came exactly one day after he asked for him, and the question that his fast arrival raises.

“Tell me,” he forces out, and to his surprise, Smecker simply nods and starts.

“You remember being shot? They said they told you-”

Murphy nods even though he doesn't, exactly, but there's no point in telling Smecker he thought he shot himself in the head and ended up in Hell because he overlooked the godforsaken man who put a bullet in his brain. Instead of that and the prospect of having to explain why that thought was on his mind in the first place, he squints over to the face that appears by the small window in the door. It's a guard, checking in regularly now. Before he asked for Smecker, there was no guard.

“Yeah, there's that.” Smecker shrugs. “This is a long-term facility, there are no guards needed here, no matter the crime.” He shrugs again, grinning. “Until now, of course.”

No wasting tax money on criminals who are never going to wake up anyway. Makes sense. He was a shell, and now someone's back inside again.

“Connor,” he prompts, weary.

It's impossible he could visit him guarded like this—if he isn't in prison in the first place. Alarmed, Murphy forces himself to focus and stares at Smecker's wrinkled face.

“Calm down, he's fine.” Smecker glances at the door, then he comes closer and crouches in front of his wheelchair. “He's in a safe house a few hours from here,” he whispers. “I couldn't make him leave - we all tried, believe me - but he's safe. He doesn't know about you yet, but I planned to visit him once we're done here, so that's what I will do.”

Heart beating in overtime, Murphy swallows and swallows, then he blinks against embarrassing wetness in his eyes. Fucking fuck, all of this. He doesn't want to be alone, this is horrible, and he's so horribly relieved Connor is well, he feels even more awful for wishing his brother to be here with him.

“Here now,” Smecker says, bloody awkwardly patting his knee. “As soon as you are better, we'll come up with a plan to get you out. We won't leave you in here after all you've done, don't even think about it.”

That's not the problem, not by a long shot, but how should Smecker know. But if he waits until he's healthy enough to _walk_ out of here, he'll go to fucking prison - that, Smecker has to know. Waiting means prison, going now means Connor.

There's nothing to talk about.

Murphy takes a deep breath and tries for another word. “Now,” he croaks, losing the plea in it. It's implied, he hopes Smecker knows as much.

“Now?” Smecker shakes his head, eyebrows high on his forehead. “Maybe you got brain damage after all.” He pauses, sighing. “They won't arrest you just now, those things take time. The charge stands, but you need to be cleared by the docs to go to trial, and until that happens, you'll stay here, safe and sound.”

No.

“Listen, we didn't know we'd ever see you open your eyes again,” Smecker says. “If you think we wouldn't stall the judge and the fucking state attorney until you're ready to be discharged, you're not thinking straight yet. There is no damn reason to worry.”

His vision blurs, forcing him to blink like a tool. Soon enough, he will be done for the day and this fucking visit will have been pointless. “Now,” he stresses. Then he averts his eyes, aching all over. “Connor.”

Smecker groans and straightens up to start pacing through the room. When he stops again, his jaw is set and his nostrils are flared. “I'll come up with something. We keep in touch, you get stronger in the meantime. I'll try to be back by the end of next week.”

Murphy smiles.

*

Ten days after he woke, they smuggle him out. The old team is back together, at least for this adventure, and they make it fucking work. The transfer from the long-term facility to a general hospital should've happened days ago, but Smecker worked his magic and stalled them for 'security reasons'. Making up a threat of the ominous brother having been sighted - surely to break out the suspect - prompts the state attorney to grand him a special team for transport.

One fake rescue operation later, Smecker stops in front of a house that looks like nothing.

“No one lives here,” he says, steering the car past a for-rent sign to the back of the house. “The sign is ours.”

Murphy nods, tired to the bone and too stubborn to admit it while Smecker parks the car and unfolds the wheelchair. With as much dignity as he can muster, Murphy lets himself be heaved out of the car and into the chair. The journey onward lasts for a few feet only, then they stop at a couple of stairs leading down to what seems to be the basement.

“Good thing you're a lightweight,” Smecker says, smiling and looking bloody disturbed with it before he lifts him out of the chair and sits him on the ground.

Uncomfortable, Murphy watches the man carry the wheelchair down the stairs. His arse is cold and he's pretty sure the pants they shoved over his hips are wet from the melting snow by now, and being carried by a man is rather low on his list of good things as well.

“Don't pull a face, boy. Things look like shit because they _are_ shit, but that doesn't mean they will stay shit forever.” Smecker nods, squatting beside him. “And you're the one getting carried bridal style without helping in the slightest. Close your eyes and think of England, all right?”

Despite it all, Murphy huffs out a laugh and manages to subdue his complaint into scrunching up his nose when Smecker lifts him and starts down the stairs. “Ye know we're from Ireland, no? Won't do to quote the Queen-”

“Yeah, no,” Smecker cuts in. “My interest in Irish-English history is nonexistent, sorry.” He shrugs, jostling him, eyebrows high and very fucking unapologetic, and sets him down in the wheelchair again. “That's it. Don't expect me to come carry you out again. Or—best wait with leaving altogether until you can walk on your own.”

Connor would do it.

He thinks—knows. If Connor were here - why isn't he here yet - he'd have carried him and it wouldn't have been better, per se, but at least it wouldn't have been as embarrassing.

Exhausted beyond measure, Murphy sits back in his chair and hypnotizes the door until Smecker unlocks it.

_Unlocks it._

“Connor has a second set of keys,” Smecker says, waving him off. “Better safe than sorry. Now - I told him we'd be coming, but I don't think he actually believed me.”

“Sounds like him,” Murphy says, raspy and weird even to his own ears. Noah isn't here after all. It doesn't come as a surprise, but he should've asked about it sooner. “Bet Connor got stir crazy locked in there all on his own,” he adds, his voice down to a whisper before he knows it, bringing out a frown—an uneasiness that creeps up his back, into his insides, dreadful enough he can't see straight for a moment. “Was he in there all this time?” Years.

No.

 _No_.

Smecker doesn't say anything. He pushes the door open and wheels him inside, calling out as the door falls shut behind them.

They stop in the middle of—a room. One room with one additional door. It opens, steam follows.

Connor with wet hair and a fucking beard and too long hair and a beard, and Smecker says something.

He looks like he felt. Connor looks worse than he felt, Hell or not.

“Con,” he says, clenching his fingers on his useless legs, staring at his brother frozen in the doorway.

“As promised,” Smecker says, and Connor is on the move, crossing the distance in three long steps. His knees hit the floor, head bowing over Murphy's bony thighs, and then he sobs. It's an awful sound without any noise behind it, entirely silent apart from his shuddering breaths and the force with which he pushes them out again.

He's not supposed to look old. They're barely over thirty, this isn't—this is too much.

Carding his fingers through too rough hair, Murphy leans over him, both for contact and to shield him, on fucking edge with knowing Smecker can see Connor like this; with his shoulders shaking and his hands clenching in the ugly fabric of his borrowed pants, pulling it tight around meat that isn't there any longer.

The first real sob comes, and what's left of his heart breaks, urging him to clench his jaw so he won't cry just because Connor does. Never, not fucking once since they were older than four or maybe five, has Connor cried like this. Out of anger - Rocco - out of hurting - fingers curled into fists after jumping from the rooftop - but not like this.

He doesn't know what to _do_.

His pants are damp already, both on his arse and now on his thighs, and out of the corners of his eyes, he sees Smecker looking down at Connor _._ There's pity in his eyes.

Hackles raised, Murphy stares and stares until he catches the man's eyes, Connor's hair damp under his fingers and his palm rocking on his back with Connor's hitching sobs. He will have nightmares from the sound, and Smecker needs to fucking leave. “Get out,” he mouths, jerking his head toward the door. Smecker nods, thankfully catching his meaning, and they share a nod he hopes looks thankful enough, then the door closes behind him.

Turning back to Connor, he listens for the turn of the keys while drawing small circles over Connor's nape with his thumb. Fuck, his hair is long. He looks bloody ridiculous, and his beard scratches even through his pants. “Con?” he tries, quiet.

He's fighting it, and that makes it even worse. The sobs turn ugly and forceful, shaking his body in a way no one should see. Not even him.

Even though, maybe—this is for him.

“Connor,” he tries again, tightening his fingers. His back hurts something fierce with how he's bowed over his brother - as does his arse, if he's honest, bony as it is now, unused to sitting on hard surfaces - and his throat is raw and he hopes to everything holy that the wheelchair fits into the bathroom or this getaway is going to get bloody awkward real quick.

First, though, he needs Connor to stop.

He doesn't know how to make him.

*

With a quiet “Fuck”, Connor stops after an immeasurable amount of time and sits back on his haunches while both his hands and his eyes stay focused on Murphy's knees. His hair curls wetly under his ears. The silence stretches, almost loud in the sudden change, and Murphy's heart hammers despite his body being tired.

“Got smokes?” he asks, at last dropping his hand from Connor's shoulder. It's an awkward attempt, the only thing that comes to his mind, but it seems to do the trick; Connor finally loosens his hold and climbs to his feet.

“Somewhere,” he says, raspy.

It takes a moment to find them, with Connor bustling about without any coordination or sense, movements erratic like they never were, and Murphy sitting in his chair doing fuck all to help. There isn't a thing he can do.

Eleven days, that's how long it's been. Rocco died and they went to do a job, no more than that. A job, ignoring the time in Hell in-between, that for his brother happened years ago. Years—what's he done in those years except forgetting to cut his hair, only ever occasionally shaving, and keeping up calls with Smecker?

What did he _do_?

When Connor finds the smokes, he lights one and carries it over to him like it's a treasure, face gray and not at all handsome anymore. It's all gone, the prettiness, the smug look, the cocky turn of his lips and brows, and Murphy wants to fucking cry.

“Thanks,” he mutters, hacking up a lung when he takes his first drag. Bloody years.

Connor sinks down on the small bed, elbows on his knees, and watches him. “I don't know where to start.”

“Well, me neither.”

Connor huffs.

Murphy grins, blowing smoke in his direction. “Get rid of that fucking beard, will ye? I can't even see yer face anymore. Doesn't it itch?” Doesn't he ever go out into the sun? Doesn't he ever go for a jog, cap in his face and sweatpants loose around his hips? Doesn't he ever—live, in between everything?

“Murph.” It's broken, and Murphy looks away because he can, because it hasn't been years, it's been only eleven days. He shouldn't look at Connor the way his brother does now. Like he's done since—

Since.

The smoke burns in his eyes and lungs. Murphy puts the filter between his lips to free his hands, grips the wheels, and rolls forward until his knees hit Connor's. “Smecker told me,” he croaks, though that's a lie. Smecker told him Connor was safe here, staying close just in case. He didn't mention _this_. He didn't mention that Connor is barely there. “I'm sorry, Con. I really am, I'm so fucking sorry I left ye here-”

“Oh, shut up.”

“But I am,” Murphy insists, sort of heated, and glares when Connor snatches the smoke.

“Yeah? Was it yer fault, then? Yer decision to go take a long fucking nap, brother?”

Rushing out a breath, Murphy forces himself to look at Connor's face, at the hardness he finds there, both around his eyes and his mouth. It's not a good look, awful even though the fucking beard is still lurking there. “I dreamed I shot myself in the head,” he says, nudging him with his knee. The tears Connor didn't wipe away dried on his cheeks, reflecting the ugly overhead light and pulling his attention. His bloody beard is wet with it. “Let's check out if this thing fits into the bathroom, aye?” he adds, tapping against his chair.

Connor stares, unmoving.

“Or not,” Murphy says as Connor's hand shoots out. “Suppose I can do it on me own.”

“What do ye mean ye fucking dreamed? And there's no fucking need for that monster to fit in there, I'll fucking carry ye.” Connor frowns an almighty frown, then he stands and marches away to put out the smoke. “Ye need rest, Smecker said as much, so we're gonna do this now and ye will fucking lie down after, but don't ye think we won't talk about what ye said. Don't believe that for one second, ye hear me? I won't- I won't forget that.”

“Okay,” Murphy says, gawking. “Then get on with it.”

They do.

It's awkward.

It's not as awkward as having Smecker carry him, but it's a close call, and he's glad when Connor leaves him alone to do his business. Tomorrow, he guesses, he'll have to come up with a plan to wash - taking his clothes off when he's already in the tub or something like that. No way Connor will carry him while his bare, bony arse hangs free for everyone to see.

There isn't anyone to see it, but still.

It's been eleven days since he tried to—since Connor said no to him. And it's been years.

*

The beard is defeated, its remains flushed down the drain never to fucking return. He'll personally guarantee it, and if it's the last thing he will ever do.

“Yer being dramatic,” Connor points out. “Which means it can't be that bad with ye now, can it? If ye got time to talk shit-”

“I didn't say anything.”

With a grunt, Connor sits down on the bed, swaying him. “I know ye,” he says, a bit small, raising his hackles.

“Course ye do,” he mutters. “Ye always- There's no way-”

“Christ.” Looking over his shoulder, Connor rolls his eyes, then he swings his legs on the mattress, lies down, and nearly falls off.

“That's for using the Lord's name in vain, ye know.” Murphy titters, half-delirious with fatigue, and closes his eyes. “And no, Connor, I don't mind. Yer not sleeping on the fucking floor, don't look at me like that.”

It's quiet, calm. A car drives by, its music echoing through the small window. Behind his eyelids, it gets even darker when the small light beside the bed turns off.

“Ye don't know what I'm looking at,” Connor states, minutes too late. “I could do any number of things. Take a picture of ye drooling. Paint yer cheeks, draw a cock on yer forehead. Ye wouldn't know.”

It's not just fatigue. It's the headaches trying to split him in two, and he thinks, deep down, no one told Connor about them. Blindly, he reaches out and finds Connor's arm tucked against his chest. Murphy rolls to face him, Connor's breath against his face, the intake sharp as he brushes against Connor's skin. Starved, Murphy thinks, aching all over. “'m not feeling too good,” he whispers, “and I can't promise I won't be out like a light soon, but here's how it's gonna be-”

“ _I_ already told ye how it's gonna be.”

Murphy waits, but nothing else comes. “Ye gonna lose yer shirt cause I know ye can't sleep in it and yer being fucking stupid about it, and then yer gonna find a blanket that doesn't smell as moldy as this one, and then ye tell me how things run around here.”

Instead of arguing, Connor does as he's told and breaks his fucking heart with it.

Back in bed, Murphy wraps his arm around Connor. It's thin and pointy without muscles, and he doesn't care, and Connor doesn't care either. He splays his fingers on Connor's back, shutting off a sound as Connor starts shaking but allows it nonetheless. He even allows him to press his forehead against his chest, the coarse hair tickling his eyelids while he listens to Connor reciting weekly phone calls with Duffy, the day Noah left, how they get him food and how he takes walks sometimes, just around the block with sunglasses on his face and a cap on his head. His voice is rough, rumbling through him and underneath him, but Connor won't hold him.

He lies flat and obeys his orders, nothing more.

It hurts so bad knowing Connor was alone all the while, touch-starved and letting himself go, just waiting, fucking waiting instead of living his life. Murphy swallows, holding on and moving his hand in something that resembles stroking but isn't quite it. There's still a line. They're brothers, and Connor missed him, and he loves him more than he should, and the line - it's his anchor. It's the important thing, the one ruling over them ever since he can remember. It's the important part, and he won't forget it.

He drifts off without letting go.

*

He manages in the bathroom, thank the fucking Lord, though it's a hassle to peel his boxers out from underneath himself when his arse is already planted in the tub, so they won't do that again. He guesses—he sort of forgot he has to get out of it as well, and he can't very well put on clothes while sitting in the water.

It's humiliating, but Connor doesn't bat an eyelid. Not while lifting him out of the tub, not while carrying him out of the bathroom so he can sit in his awful bloody chair. His strength comes back more every day, and soon enough he'll be able to pull himself in and out of the rolling offense without help, but for now, they're closer than even he would like.

At least during the day.

There's nothing to fucking do.

Eating, resting, exercising, resting, washing, resting. How Connor survived this for years without even having the goal of fucking walking again is a mystery to him.

A few weeks in, Connor stops allowing him to touch when they're in bed. He had his fill, fucking obviously, and Murphy feels old and dramatic and depressed. Not even properly retired, and this feels like the fucking end. He can't stand, and he still has a headache, if dull.

_No silly person why would I why would I-_

There's no light, just an alarm clock beside the bed, shining a hideous yellow. Connor lies on his side, close like always, shirtless like always, his fucking smell in his nose like always, and he won't allow to be touched.

“Why didn't ye leave?” Murphy asks, quiet between them, and angry, rather suddenly. “What if I hadn't woken up? Ye got any grand plans for that?” There's nothing, just a soft noise from Connor he doesn't care to interpret. “And if I don't get better? Who fucking knows how it's gonna be. Might be a bloody cripple forever.”

“Don't be silly,” Connor mutters, his tone agreeable enough Murphy wiggles closer, inching back into the position he became used to over the last few weeks _no silly person-_

Connor scoots back and out of reach.

His heart burns, clenching in a tight and irregular rhythm while he thinks about insults to throw at Connor's head, about weak spots, mean things to hit the fucking jackpot, but in the end, Murphy deflates again. If he had to choose, he'd rather fight with Connor than getting ignored or shoved aside, but the thought that Connor might stop to need him after all is unbearable.

“What is it?”

“Nothin'.” He grimaces through the dark, rather dumb. “I've got a question.”

Connor hums, nudging him with his knee. It stays, giving him the push to be brave enough to at least try to break through Connor's barriers. Before he starts, Murphy makes sure his voice is low enough and raspy enough to sound maybe a bit alluring or at least intimate, and then he licks his lips and thinks about the goosebumps on Connor's back and the time it took him to understand what he proposed—which was none at all. No time, he knew from the start, he knew and knows, he's a seer and there were goosebumps and he wanted to, he wanted or he wouldn't have come up with his scheme about pretending.

Murphy grins, in the dark. It doesn't feel good, so he changes his question to cut through Connor's heart as well as his own.

“Why didn't ye want me?” It was supposed to be present tense, but that would've been a bit much even for him, and Connor won't answer either way. He's in stasis, now and probably forever, at least about this topic.

Connor's wrist bumps against him, and then it stays. Perhaps out of fear, not out of wanting to. “Don't ask me that,” he says, and it sounds fragile, brittle. Not like a rejection, but not like a forthcoming explanation either.

“Didn't ye love me?”

“Don't be like that,” Connor croaks, and suddenly he reaches out after all, deliberate and slow. His hand comes up to his chest, over his shirt, over his bony ribs, over his heart. His breathing isn't right; it's rushed and stuttering, and surely Connor feels how fast his heart hammers under his palm.

“I'm not angry with ye,” Murphy says even though he is. “I just want to know.”

Connor hitches a breath and something breaks loose. “I love ye, all right,” he forces out, fingers curling into his shirt. He sobs, and Murphy gapes through the dark. “I can't fucking breathe with it. I never- I'm so fucking sorry.” With a harsh sound, he lets go and rolls onto his back. Murphy rolls after. “Don't.”

Despite lying down, Murphy feels himself sagging. Maybe he was wrong all along, maybe this is Hell, not that thing that turned out to be a dream. He wants to get up and pace for a while, but it's not to be done. He has to lay there and be miserable while Connor looks into the future.

Eventually, Connor's hand comes back to him, and a sigh with it. A small puff of air against his shoulder. “Every time I think it couldn't possibly get any worse, I turn 'round and ye set my fucking heart on fire.” Connor swallows, loud in their closeness. “It's been torture,” he whispers, and Murphy doesn't dare move.

“When ye were alone?” he asks and _prays_ he's wrong.

There's no answer.

It's an answer.

“Get better now,” Connor says. “That's the priority.” He withdraws his hand but stays next to him, so Murphy scoots a bit closer until Connor is first just near and then firmly lodged against his side. It's all right in every world, especially all right for family members who were separated for a while.

*

Connor taps over the tiles, feet bare and a weird spring to his steps.

On the bed, Murphy frowns, headache-free, and lazily kicks out in his direction. “What're ye smiling about?”

“The sunny day, brother.”

They're stuck in the everlasting twilight of the cellar, the ugly light on the ceiling the only source of brightness apart from the miserable lamp beside the bed that functions for more than a couple of minutes at a time. There's a floor lamp over by the small stove, but that's it. Murphy huffs and pulls his bathrobe tighter around his middle, then he looks back at the ceiling.

It's a hobby.

It's awesome.

The light goes out.

“Connor,” he says, blinking through the dark. Somewhere to his right, Connor mutters under his breath. “The fuck yer doing? I was-”

“Busy?” Connor prompts, suddenly further away. “Staring at walls doesn't count as spending one's time, no matter what ye say.”

“There are shapes to spot.”

There's light again, at least not as ugly as the one from the ceiling. Connor wanders back over and climbs on the bed, complete in shirt and jeans. “Wanna play a bit of cards?”

Murphy grunts.

“No?” Connor asks. “Tired?”

Tired of boredom. Bored of tiredness. A bit depressed, if he's honest, but that will go away once he's hale again.

“Ye could sleep, ye know. I'm tired as well.”

The statement is so far from the truth, Murphy laughs, prompting his brother to turn on his side. “It's 6 PM, ye knob. We didn't even have dinner yet.”

“I didn't know there were laws dictating when one's allowed to sleep.”

“That's because yer uneducated.”

It's peaceful somehow, with both of them staying silent despite not planning to sleep. He means to ask questions, has meant to for days, about where Noah left to - and why - whether Ma knows - she probably does - what their plan is after he recovered enough to travel. Whether Doc ever asked for him.

Putting the questions off always seems like the saner idea. A means to keep the peace in their sanctuary as if the slightest disturbance could lead to the whole thing blowing up.

It feels like it, ominously.

“This would've been it,” Connor says as if on cue. “There was no plan. None other than this, right here.”

He can't move.

“I would've—no matter how long. There wasn't...”

As if he ever doubted it. As if he wouldn't have done the fucking same—though had it been Connor, he would've known the reason for staying. “I didn't mean to pry,” Murphy says, dull even to his own ears.

_Makes as much sense as a cow on a plane._

Connor's hand comes up to him, slowly, splaying on his chest, both on his skin and the bathrobe where it lies open. “Cold?” he asks, quiet.

Murphy glances over, only out of the corners of his eyes as to not startle Connor. By drawing attention to himself. Bloody fuck, this is ridiculous. His heart hammers. “Not really,” he says, pushing up against the palm until he gets stopped by Connor parting the bathrobe.

It splays open to the knot on his stomach, leaving his chest bare while Connor watches the work of his own fingers with such a focus, his mouth hangs slightly open. What he's doing isn't a caress, it's a gentle exploration as if Connor feels the need to re-learn him; fingers sliding through sparse hair, brushing over a nipple without lingering, slow and careful and still right, not too intimate, not too inappropriate.

The sight raises his blood pressure nonetheless, firing thoughts across his head while Murphy can't breathe and can't _ask_.

The hand stops at the knot of his bathrobe. Connor scoots closer, leaning his forehead against his temple. He smells like old smoke, bitter, almost sour. He smells like home. “Don't ye want to change?” he asks, rough and halting. “Ye've got to be dry by now, no?”

A way out. Connor is giving him a way out while phrasing it so vaguely, he can't be blamed for reading anything wrong, and Murphy's heart gives a final lurch before dying for fucking good.

Not trusting his voice, he fumbles for his boxers and pushes them down, careful not to dislodge Connor's hand in the process. Or to move too much. Or to look in his direction. Even turning his head seems like too great a risk, so Murphy lies motionless, bare beneath the stupid robe until Connor's nose rubs against his temple.

The knot comes loose, and Connor shoves his free arm under the pillow. Under his head, raising him up, lips ghosting over his cheek. When Connor's fingers come back to his chest, they brush against him as if on accident, as if Connor hadn't known he'd be there already, curving up to meet him.

Connor grunts, snapping his fingers in place. “Already,” he breathes, still without looking at the proof, lips ghosting over his cheekbone while he cradles his cock.

Murphy turns his head, out of his mind, and chokes on a plea to be kissed just as Connor closes the gap and gently licks over his lips, still so fucking careful as if he believes he'd _disagree_ at this point. Murphy whines, surging up as Connor's tongue pushes into his mouth, licking into him and laying fucking waste to his ability to think. A hint of stubble is all that's left on his cheeks, gently pulling at his own, catching and dragging in a way he didn't know he needed until now.

Trapped half under his brother, Murphy lets himself be kissed, then stroked when Connor tests his hold on him, overwhelmed for good and almost - almost - too far gone to remember this isn't what he wants.

This is only half.

Pressing back into the pillow, he heaves a breath as to not moan on accident—though it may be allowed now. He's not sure, he can't be fucking sure until he knows where Connor stands. Murphy opens his eyes, staring at Connor looming over him, and forces his hand between them until he finds what he's looking for.

Connor is ready, obvious despite the jeans.

“Ye too,” Murphy states, but then he decides it should be a question instead. “Ye too? Con.”

Connor huffs a breath against his lips, and before Murphy knows what's happening, Connor lets go of him and closes his eyes. “Ye fucking test me, Murph,” he mumbles, voice small and not good, not good at all as he rolls onto his back and opens his jeans.

“Connor.” There's nothing to follow it up with, but it feels right, weirdly, so he says it again, “Connor.”

“Keep making that sound and I won't last more than a minute.”

He moans, face on fire, then again when Connor climbs on his lap, naked from his waist down. Leaning forward on his elbows, Connor is like a living cage, keeping him in place, wiggling around until he aligns them just right. When he rolls his hips for the first time, Murphy snaps into action, breathing out a sound he doesn't want to know about and shoving his hands under Connor's shirt, on his back.

How the fuck could he ever think this is Hell, how on earth— “Feels good,” he croaks, senseless, pretending he can't feel Connor's ribs standing out under his fingers, that Connor holds back each and every sound he knows he'd make, usually. He's heard him wanking for fifteen years, and now he's working on top of him, sitting on his thighs and keeping quiet.

“Can ye come like this?” Connor asks, eyes squeezed shut and cock smearing between them. Judging from his voice, he's on his way there himself, and judging from his pained expression, this isn't going like he planned.

“I can,” Murphy whispers. He slows down, making himself pliant, loosening his grip on Connor's back. “I will,” he adds, playing with the shirt, pulling it up, willing his brother to take the hint.

Connor takes it off without making eye contact, and when he leans over him again, everything feels even more tentative. Fucking impossibly so, as if rubbing their cocks together could have been counted as a pure carnal act but this is something else entirely, something that requires slow movements and kisses that go deep but can't be quick, moans that can be heard but not too loud.

It's over within minutes, and it's not enough.

They stick together, warm and wet and disgusting, until Connor sits up, face red and mouth red, and he won't look at him. He won't climb off, either. He simply sits there, straddling him like he doesn't know where else to go.

In his mind, something howls, small and ancient. Murphy swallows, digging his thumbs into the meat of Connor's thighs and observing the way his eyelashes point down at his cheeks. They're throwing tiny shadows he finds he wants to taste, whatever that fucking means. “Lie back down on me,” he demands.

Connor lets out the smallest sound he's ever heard. “What for?”

“I want to kiss ye.”

Connor swallows. “How am I supposed to come down if ye are like that?”

“Don't,” Murphy croaks. “Don't come down.”

Connor falls forward, pressing the air out of him.

His cock, spent and softening, gives a pathetic twitch as Connor moves to lie more comfortably. His breath slows down but his heartbeat doesn't, not for a moment, not when he fucking knows Connor doesn't get it. After all these years, not only the Hell-years but the ones before as well, Connor still doesn't understand.

“My heart's about to beat out of my chest,” Murphy says, fucking dumb.

They kiss again, fingers tangled and chests messy, and Connor doesn't believe him. His averted eyes say it, the fingers tightening around him.

“Please.” He's begging, and it takes Connor finding a sweet spot right under his ear for Murphy to be brave again. He rolls up his hips, letting out a small moan when his cock stirs back to life.

“Again?” Connor says, raw. “Murph, but...”

“But what?” Despite his best efforts, it sounds unsure. He won't stand for it, but Connor presses his lips against his throat, the same spot, and scrapes his teeth over it. Underneath, there's a sound just as unsure, and Murphy grips his back, fingertips digging into sweaty skin. “Did ye think this would be- I won't allow this to be one-time only.”

“Allow,” Connor says. He vibrates—he fucking laughs, the arsehole. The tension lessens at once, but Murphy doesn't dare move until they kiss again, first slow and hesitating, then more urgent.

Still stuck in the arms of his bathrobe, he's pinned completely, pressed into the mattress. It's fine - perfect, and Connor's knees are spread wide to rub over him, which is even nicer, but if he could _see_ —that would be something else. “Wish we had a mirror,” he mumbles before he even understands the thought. Above him, Connor stills and can't be swayed even when Murphy thrusts up to get him going again.

“What for?”

Cheeks burning, he slides his hand up Connor's leg and places it on his butt. There wasn't much of it to begin with, but now he barely gets a handful, feeling high and fucking immoral when he pulls the slightest bit to expose him.

Connor gapes, pupils blown wide as he laughs and bends down again. “This is fucking wrong,” he states, and for once, he doesn't sound unsure in the slightest. Murphy snatches his hand back because Connor is right, of course. There isn't anything right about this. It's a sin, but he thought—and they agreed, didn't they?

At this angle, Connor's face is hidden from view, fucking intentional, most likely, and when his voice comes again, it's quiet, “I'd let ye do anything. If ye want.” His head comes back up and Connor drags his lips over his cheek. It tickles, and there's stubble, and Murphy's heart is on fire. “If ye want, we can—we can do anything.”

“All right.”

Connor hums, pressing a kiss under his eye. “I didn't think this far ahead. Or about it at all, Murph. At all, and it's been so long and I- Well, I fucking love ye. Like that.”

“Con-”

“Ye will be the death of me,” Connor says. “Yer going to break me fucking heart.”

Connor moves away, and Murphy grips him with a strength he didn't know he could summon yet. “Don't go,” he urges, face burning and something fluttering in his throat, frightened. “Don't go, aye? I won't mention it again. We forget it.”

“Let go.” His voice is soft. “And stay like this,” Connor adds, kissing him again. Then he climbs off, cock cradled in his hand as he speeds over to the stove.

Unable to see what he's up to, Murphy stays in place despite feeling very much on display. The feeling is mostly positive, but combined with Connor's fear of him breaking his heart, it raises a lingering sense of vulgarity as well, simply lying there, doing as told, cock coming back to life and come drying on his chest while he waits for his own brother to return to him.

“What did ye mean,” he dares when Connor walks back over. “Because that's—insane, ye know. I won't do that. Not on purpose. I'd never...” He trails off, eyes fixed on the oil in Connor's hand.

Connor climbs back on, straddling him with ease. “It won't be anything ye do on purpose. It will be something like what already happened.” He shrugs, dismissive as if he thinks he's able to see the future indeed. Maybe he is. “Or maybe it'll be life. Ma, being on the run, a lass.”

“Connor.”

“Now,” Connor says, voice thick as he sorts his legs. “This needs preparation and it might take a while. Feel free to blather on, but don't expect me to listen.”

“I can do it,” Murphy says even though he has no clue.

Rising on his knees, Connor's slick hand disappears behind his cock. “I don't doubt that,” he breathes, “but I'm not—ye know. Clean. So I will do it meself.”

“I don't care.” Murphy clears his throat, mortified about his twitching cock. “That's what showers are for, no?”

There's no answer, just Connor's ragged breaths and the quiet, slick sounds of his fingers moving.

“How do ye know about this anyway?” Murphy asks when he can't stand it any longer. The thought leaves him breathless, suddenly, burning in his throat. “Someone teach ye or what?”

“Rocco,” Connor grunts. “He tried to use fucking salad dressing once, can ye believe that?”

Momentarily horrified when his mind tries to decide whether Rocco used it on himself or some poor lass, it takes Connor letting out a rough groan for his mind to snap back into focus. “But he only told ye, no?”

Connor rolls his eyes, and they're quiet until he finishes preparing. After wiping his hand on his thigh, he moves to straddle him again, slicking him up with gentle fingers and without looking away from his face. He smiles, the most beautiful thing in the universe. His, at least. When he sits, it's with another rough noise, quiet and intimate and only for him, adding to the strain in his breathing when he moves for the first time.

“He only told me,” he whispers before they kiss again.

Murphy already forgot.

*

The sun sunk low enough to shine through the tiny window, leaving the kitchen in a milky glow. Murphy reaches out, brushing his fingertips over the nape of Connor's neck, the slightly too long curls there. At the counter, Connor stills, his hand on the sharp knife limp and forgotten. Bold, Murphy steps up behind him and replaces his fingers with his lips.

“Murph.” It's soft, but Connor doesn't flee or continues to cut the carrots.

Blood pounding in his ears, Murphy dares another kiss, against the side of Connor's throat this time. “Want me to stop?” he mumbles, face perpetually hot and nerves frayed. Who the fuck would've thought there were so many boundaries to negotiate when falling in love with one's brother? If Connor knows by now.

“No,” Connor whispers, and Murphy jerks back before his brain catches up. It's about the kissing, not the reason for it.

“Good,” he says to say something, and steps close enough to wind his arm around Connor's chest. The tips of his fingers slip under his flimsy shirt, just resting, not teasing even as Connor tilts his head back. “I'm gonna say something.”

“I know,” Connor says. His eyes are closed, and Murphy strains his neck to brush a kiss over his cheekbone.

“But still,” he insists.

Connor stops him by holding up his free hand. “Aren't ye afraid? What will happen when-”

“I'm not.” It's a lie.

“Yer lying.”

Murphy grins. “I love ye.” Connor is solid against his chest, warm where his fingers curl around his wrist. “I'm in love with ye,” Murphy says, splaying his fingers, hair tickling his palm. This close, Connor's cheek looks very red. He leans forward to kiss it again. Something that's allowed now, he guesses.

“I know, Murph. I knew.”

_Why would I why would I-_

It still stings. Of course it does, it's not been long enough. “I figured,” Murphy says at length, because he did figure, even when everything else went to shit. It was Connor who was scared, it always was. His brother simply likes to pretend. “Come to bed,” Murphy says, trying for seductive and failing spectacularly.

“I'm cooking, ye know.”

“Then turn off the stove.”

“Smecker is going to be here in a bit.”

Murphy bends his fingers, scratching low over Connor's belly and pressing forward when Connor melts back against him. “We have time. Come on.”

“Abysmal behavior, that's what it is,” Connor mutters, but he turns all the same, carrot forgotten on the chopping board. In the direct line of the sun, his hair looks like a halo. He's holy, he always suspected. “Get on with it, then,” he says, gently shoving him toward the bed.

Murphy stumbles, legs weak not only because of the disuse, pleased when Connor does the undressing for him.

“Yer gonna be insatiable, aren't ye?” On his knees, Connor's thumbs linger over his hip bones, pressing in and leaving him breathless. “Ye've always been a piece of work.”

“It's not my fault yer a ride,” Murphy states, grinning as Connor groans.

“Please stop.”

“Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.” He waggles his eyebrows, then Connor shuts him up after all, not with words, but with his mouth nonetheless.

*

“Nothing is permanent.”

Murphy lies on the ground, back to staring at the ceiling. At least it's not out of apathy any longer, though the feeling tries to rise back to the surface when Connor's words sink in. He could pretend to misunderstand his brother on purpose, to talk about their honeymoon in a cellar, but given the face Connor sports, it won't do him any good. “That's wise,” he says because he can't help himself. “Doesn't mean we can't try nonetheless.”

The turning of a page is the only hint of Connor's continued existence. He's been pretending to read for a while now, and Murphy is quite sure Connor couldn't even tell him the title of the bloody book he seems to be engrossed with.

Connor, Murphy finds once and for all, thinks he knows the future. He's scared of the ending he knows will come, has been ever since.

“What if I promise to never leave ye?”

Connor flips him off.

“Well, the fuck do ye want me to say, then?” Murphy gripes, and suddenly it feels stupid to be lying on the floor, but he doesn't want to draw attention to his insecurity either, so he stays where he is and glares at the back of Connor's head.

“Nothing. Nothing, Murph, I simply made a statement. What ye said just now—well, I wouldn't want to insult ye, but ye get the message. Promising shit is not how things like this work.”

“I say they fucking do. Now what?”

“Murphy.”

“Connor,” he mimics.

The sun is down and every trace of Connor's mouth on him has left his body, dinner has been cleared away and Smecker has been said goodbye to. There's nothing to do, and Connor hasn't given a single thought to their inevitable ending happening the other way around. Not for a single moment his thick brother thought about the possibility of falling out of love himself. Murphy has half a mind to bring it up, but he can already hear the answer in his head, 'that's different, Murph', maybe even combined with a variation of 'don't talk about things ye don't understand.'.

“The fuck's the matter with ye now?”

Several spots on the ceiling have a curious coloring; either mold or someone pissed on there. Up the ceiling. Whatever. “I'm arguing with ye in my head to save the energy of doing it out loud.”

“And how's that going?”

“Grand. I'm winning.” Murphy grins, obnoxious and quite sure Connor hasn't turned around to witness it, and then he thinks of something else and his grin withers away again. When he glances up, his suspicion gets confirmed; Connor's head is still buried in his book. “I couldn't stand it if we end up somewhere people think we're not brothers.”

Connor turns, slow and with a blank face.

“I couldn't do it, Con,” he croaks, feeling bloody unhinged just thinking about it. Smecker didn't even give them a date yet, let alone a destination, and he's already losing his mind about it. “It's more important than hiding. To me. It's more important to me.”

There's silence, and he doesn't look over again.

“How important?” Connor asks eventually, voice thin like he thinks he knows this is the end now.

In a way, it would serve him right. For the last weeks - fuck, for the last _years_ \- he's done nothing but predicting it.

“Enough to tell Ma,” Murphy mutters. “If ye bloody insist.” It's a lie, again.

Hopefully.

He isn't sure.

Connor looks like he's having a stroke, and he still isn't sure, but that's not the fucking point anyway. If telling Ma were what would make Connor agree to them, he'd grab his fucking wheelchair and roll all the way to the next pay phone. As things are now, he's pretty fucking positive this is the last thing Connor wants—apart from an actual marriage proposal. Murphy snorts out a laugh, earning himself a rather extreme version of Connor's stink eye.

“I mean,” Murphy says. He licks his lips and frowns. “What's that even mean? Is that what ye want? Going somewhere and telling folks we're a couple instead of brothers?”

“I don't want anything.”

Something turns in his stomach and wanders up into his chest, making his heart ache. It's all wrong, the entire notion. He loves him, he does, but this between them - it isn't as important as what they had all their lives—but maybe that's simply not how Connor sees it. Maybe he feels the exact opposite about it, maybe he'll want to do it the traditional way and forget everything about them growing up and being fucking twins and _no marriage ever lasts anyway._

“Ye say that now, I'm going to punch ye in the face,” Connor says, friendly. He even smiles for it, including a small nod, and a stone drops from Murphy's chest. Of course Connor doesn't want that. It's absurd, entirely, and he always fucking said so. It's impossible he could've known - outright creepy - but he stated the fact so frequently and with so much vigor, it made Murphy frown and worry, yet never properly think it through.

And here they are.

“I'm going to say something,” Murphy says. It's a déja vu, and he's not sure how to feel about it until Connor rolls his eyes, dramatic and flustered. “I'll use that all the time now. Gets ye to bloody well listen and get ready for the truth I'm about to spread.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

Murphy grins, watching his brother sign the cross, then he averts his eyes because Connor's antipathy to marriage has never been about him, he bloody well knows that. Even if Connor loves him, he couldn't have known at the age of fucking five. He couldn't even have understood what he said, and still he did, and still he worried, and still he was so sure he never changed his mind.

“Years,” Murphy says, quiet, preparing. He hurts already, but it must be done. “Years, Con. I don't think I'll have to tell ye yer own story, but ye seem to forget we had a history before I—went away.” He pauses, taking in Connor's pinched face. “Ye rejected me. I get it, I suppose, but it doesn't change the fact that ye did.”

“Murph.”

“Fucking rude, that's what ye were, and ye did- I'm sorry, but ye did break my heart. That already happened.”

Connor looks like he's either about to cry or yell, and Murphy can't decide which would be worse.

“We're already past that,” he murmurs, inching over the floor, closer to the chair Connor sits on. “I forgave ye. Maybe it'll be a while until I trust ye not to do it again, I dunno, but I did forgive ye.” He pauses, catching his eyes. “But Con, the other way around didn't happen.”

“Yer saying ye should be the one—the one afraid or whatever?”

That isn't what he planned to say, but it's close enough to the truth. “I'm saying that I didn't stop loving ye,” Murphy says, finally finding the nerve to sit up and wrap his fingers around Connor's knee. “I'm saying that out of the two of us, I'm not the stronger one. I'm just not, but I did live through it anyway. We came out on the other side.”

They sit in silence. Murphy tightens his fingers. The knee bounces, rough jeans moving under his palm, weirdly calming as he watches Connor think until he closes the book with a sigh and places it on his thigh.

“And ye won't want to get back to how it was,” Connor states, small.

“I won't.” Not now, and hopefully not ever. “Don't ye trust me?” Murphy asks, fucking unfair. Connor has to agree, there's no way he will reject him again. This conversation already went on for too long, it's like talking with a lass and his interest is very fucking low on more heartfelt confessions. Connor has to agree, because admitting falling out of love is what he feared since the beginning, since he was old enough to understand, since he was old enough he thought he understood the truth about marriage and the fact that they never ever hold—that's not something Connor is prepared to do.

He knows him, and staying brothers while being married without being married is the closest to a happy ending they will ever get.

“All right.”

Murphy closes his eyes, relaxing his muscles, breathing out.

“For now,” Connor says.

Murphy opens his eyes again. He looks up at his brother, at his eyelashes and the shadows underneath them, painting pretty patterns on his cheeks. He hasn't agreed, not truly. Maybe he never will, or maybe it'll take until they're ancient, fifty at least, maybe even older, smacking each other with canes for different reasons.

Maybe it will take even longer than that.

Quiet, with Connor's fingers curling around his, Murphy thinks he won't ever ask again. He doesn't need to know. If the end comes, they will go from there, and if it doesn't - it simply doesn't. Until then, he'll be the one holding up hope and holding onto Connor all the while, his faithful brother who thinks he's seen the future, who thinks he knows and therefore fears the end that might never come.


End file.
